


Common Thread

by sweetjamielee



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetjamielee/pseuds/sweetjamielee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many things change over the course of twenty years.  Some things never do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Thread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NovaMist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaMist/gifts).



When they meet, she’s practically a baby.  At the very least, she feels like a cliché, the struggling actress looking for her first big break.  He isn’t _that_ much more well-known, but is better at acting like it.  It’s contagious – when she auditions with him, she stares him in the eye as she delivers her lines, more confident as Scully than she is as Gillian, and plays off him effortlessly.  When it’s over he smiles in that slow, lazy way and says “Not bad.”  It’s a privilege to tell him no when he asks if she wants a drink later.  Even with all the murmurings about them wanting someone with _more savvy_ and _more sex appeal,_ she has a feeling she’ll be seeing him again.

 

She does.

 

They work in the way that all good tv couples do – oil and water, jagged puzzle pieces that fit seamlessly together, lightning and sparks and all of that.  Some of it is good acting, and some of it… not.  He likes to rile her up, tease her.  Friction makes heat, and heat brings the viewers.  It’s not a difficult formula.

 

And yeah, there’s part of her…  She has no idea _why_ she wants him.  She hates most men like him, the understated arrogance of them, the ones who are mostly polite but right under the surface you _know_ they think their cock is God’s gift and they have a thousand women who’d gladly confirm that and worship it.  But yet, she doesn’t hate him… can’t, really.  He’s too smart for his own damn good, but she’s not so dim herself, and their discussions engage her and keep her interested in a way most others don’t do.  And he’s _funny,_ dammit, has been known to make her snort with his inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times, and eventually it always makes her forgive his occasional ( _interminable)_ narcissism and stubbornness.

 

She’s pretty stubborn too, if she’s honest with herself.  That’s the only reason she holds out for the first few months of shooting, ignoring his bedroom eyes and suggestive words until after the premiere.  The numbers aren’t fantastic but better than they’d dared to hope; words like “ _cult favorite”_ and _“sleeper hit”_ are being thrown around.  That big break she was looking for: likely found.  They celebrate with a lavish party and drunken revelry.  David makes her dance – not just with him, but with Chris and Robert, and when the night is done and he is escorting her back to her hotel room everything feels like a giddy, tipsy whirl.

 

“This is a bad idea,” she giggles, words champagne-fuzzy as he presses his lips against the milky skin of her throat and pushes the door shut behind them.

 

“All the best things are.”  It seemed a good point at the time.

 

They’re both young and single and hell, it’s just once… something to get out of her system, because curiosity only fuels these things, she knows.

 

(For someone so full of himself, David Duchovny is a shockingly generous lover with an oral fixation worthy of a Freudian case study.  But.  Just once, she tells him when it’s over; when the champagne’s worn off and he’s watching her heavy-lidded from a nest of stiff hotel sheets.  “Whatever the lady wants,” he says with a satisfied grin, and she throws her top at him.  This is exactly, _exactly_ why they’ll never work.

 

But he’s right to be glib, of course.  It doesn’t take long.)

 

They get along better when they’re having sex, she reasons, after a few months.  In the beginning it felt like they fought sometimes just for the privilege of being able to fuck it out later.  There’s less drama in the giving in, skipping the token protests when he comes to her trailer on gray and rainy Vancouver nights.  This way, they actually _talk_ sometimes – about London and her high school rap sheet, junior varsity basketball and unfinished Ph.D.’s.   If you’re going to screw your co-star, you might as well get to know him too.  When he’s not being a dick, he’s actually pretty good company.

 

It’s not like it’s forever.

 

\--

 

Clyde is creative.  Easy to talk to.  Donates to multiple charities several times a year.  Checks his ego.  Spending time with him makes her feel so normal.She’s twenty-six, and all her friends are getting married.  She’s wanted to be an actress as long as she can remember, but drugs and parties and casual sex haven’t held appeal for a long time.

 

When she tells David – holds her diamond out like a shield – his face falls blank for only a fraction of a second before the ready smile returns.  “Inevitable,” he whispers as he hugs and congratulates her, makes the requisite jokes about making sure that hippie takes care of her.

 

He doesn’t come to the wedding.  He sends her a toaster with a note to be grateful, he could have picked the fondue set.  She rolls her eyes, not sure what she expected, and she’s a married woman and that is that.

 

(Except, not.  Sometimes the days of shooting are long and tiring; long after Clyde’s work is finished and he goes home, there are endless table-reads and rote memorization of scientific lingo, running from monsters.  Neither David nor she knows many other people in Vancouver.  Some days all they want to do is get away from each other, but others – he’s the only one who understands.  One night they’re running lines alone and she’s been fucking them up all day; when she spills her tea on the shirt she’s been wearing for twenty-one hours it’s all over and she bursts into tears.  He’s there in a heartbeat, holding her.

 

“Aw Gill.”  He brushes her hair tenderly.  “It’s okay.  Your Scully clothes are awful, I’d ruin them too.”

 

She should hit him, really.  Instead, she lets him kiss her.  Listens when he whispers he misses her.

 

She never thought she’d be this person.  But hell if it doesn’t feel a little bit like home, each and every time.)

 

\--

 

They don’t.  Not while she’s pregnant, they don’t.  Not even in month seven, after the hormones kick in again and she’s hot for it most of that time in the way that makes no evolutionary sense once your reproductive purpose has already been fulfilled.  Not even when he tells her (whispered low between takes as she laughs and swats him) that he likes the fullness of her, the way her skin glows and her breasts test the stretch of her knit tops, and she knows he would.  It feels wrong – her body’s not her own right now, and she thinks maybe, maybe she can be good.

 

Of course she can’t.  Not in the long run.  When she and Clyde barely see each other and their interactions are mostly relegated to information exchanges about their filming schedules and their daughter’s potty habits.  (And of course, there’s that time she sobs in relief, alone, while the papers with the paternity results flutter to the floor.  They were safe, always, but you just couldn’t really know until you _know._ )  She loves her baby, God knows she does, but her push and pull with David is the only thing that makes her feel like a _woman_ anymore.   Long after she becomes receptive, he won’t take the bait; makes her stalk to his trailer late one night scowling.

 

He’s lying on his bed, idly flipping through a magazine like he was biding time waiting for her.  “What have I done to deserve a visit from the esteemed Saint Gillian?” he asks, dropping the magazine, crossing his hands behind his head and dripping with coyness.

 

“Fuck you,” she growls, grabbing him by the shirt collar and pulling him up to her.  And that’s exactly what she does.

 

She just doesn’t understand how it’s so easy for him.

 

\--

 

The show goes on.  She could have never conceived of how popular it is – _her_ show.  Her acting.  She lives and breathes X-Files and her daughter and feels so, so guilty that sometimes she just can’t help herself with the other thing.  David’s dating someone now regularly, a pretty blonde actress with more film credits than either of them.  Gillian tries not to remember that woman’s name, when she slips from his bed.  It’s not so easy to forget her husband’s.

 

David’s not even close to the only reason why Gillian’s marriage fails.  But when it does, finally, officially – there’s some relief.

 

Between set changes, she approaches him cautiously, playing it cool even though there’s no more cool left to play.  “I’m getting divorced.”

 

He pauses for a moment, before a boyish, embarrassed smile crosses his face.  “I’m… getting married.”

 

She can’t help it.  She laughs for a good three minutes.

 

\--

 

Téa.  Gillian has to learn the name now.  She likes Téa; she’s got a dry sense of humor and handles David’s shenanigans with aplomb and her own brand of smart-ass.  Gillian sends him a fondue set for the wedding.  Their little inside joke.

 

The next few years, life happens.  It seems to come at her faster than ever before, significant events just all tumbling one after the other and running together.  The show moves to sunny L.A.  Téa gets pregnant and has a beautiful baby girl.  Gillian’s baby girl isn’t so much of a baby anymore.  There are interviews and promotions and this isn’t her work anymore, it’s her lifestyle.  She can’t conceive of a life without Scully at the moment.  Without Mulder.

 

Without David.

 

And that’s exactly when he announces he’s leaving.

 

It’s not fair, how upset she gets.  He’s served his time; he’s not beholden to Chris, or the show, or her.  She knows this.

 

All she feels is abandoned.

 

“You’re leaving us to fail,” she tells him in his dressing room.  She says us; means _me._

 

“I’m struggling with some things.”  He’s been looking worn lately; they don’t talk as much as they used to because their lives are made up of their families, their kids, and all the things that make what they do ( _sometimes, just sometimes)_ feel so incredibly wrong.

 

“This?” she asks.  Her face feels hot, and she hasn’t been this angry with him in a long time.  “You know, at any point you could just _not do it_ anymore.  We’ve always known where we stood.  You don’t have to _quit_ to get away from us.

 

He blinks at her.  “Of course I do.”

 

The air deflates from her lungs, and he’s right.  If either of them could just _not do it,_ not doing it would have happened long, long ago.

 

“Trust me, Gills.  You’re not responsible for how fucked up I am.  Something’s just… got to change, you know?  We… It’s been ten years.”

 

It’s funny how time gets away from you.  _Ten years._ As many as she has fingers, a decade.  He looks so sad.  Feeling sorry for him isn’t what she came here for, and now she just feels sorry for both of them.

 

She takes a shuddering breath as she wraps her arms around him.  “When the hell did you become my best friend, you asshole?” she asks.

 

He chuckles low against her ear.  “We’re bonded by fire, babe.  Don’t worry.  You’ll never _really_ be rid of me.”

 

It’s both a frightening and comforting thought.

 

\--

 

She’d been right – about the show failing.  _MulderandScully_ were ubiquitous, and with that divided, some of the magic’s gone.  She likes her new co-stars, never dials it in, but a pall hangs over the set.  The end is near, and everyone knows it.

 

What he’d been right about:  that distance makes it easier.  The daily work and play and fighting and teasing had been their homeostasis, but now he’s a guest star on his own show.  It feels almost awkward.

 

When they get word that the series hasn’t been renewed, there’s a sense of déjà vu as she remembers her divorce – the sadness and relief.  At this point, at least she’s practiced in the art of letting go.

 

\--

 

All those years ago anyone would have chosen _him_ out of their pair, as Most Likely to Have a Tumultuous Personal Life, but he’s the one still staying put, with the long-term marriage and kids all by one partner and the stable job.

 

It’s hard not to be jealous.  It’s hard not to wonder what _she’s_ doing wrong.

 

When Chris calls her to tell her the second movie’s a go, as long as she wants in (she’s lying in bed nursing her newborn at the time, while her daughter practices guitar two rooms over), she only hesitates for a few seconds before committing. 

 

Surely, all the time and distance have worked their magic.  Going back to Scully doesn’t mean going back to the life of Old Gillian.  It’s just a role, just a movie, just a reunion with some dear old friends, and she’s going to enjoy them.

 

\--

 

He’s craggier than she remembers when they meet again; his hair is longer.  They’ve both lost their baby faces, and some of the innocence they must have had at one point. 

 

He’s still the handsomest person she’s ever seen.

 

“Hey, you dirty old man,” she teases as she hugs him.  He grabs her ass to confirm it.

 

Lovely, to have the old gang back together.  There are inside jokes that still make sense in a brand new century.  They have a big, raucous dinner to celebrate their homecoming and no one can hold their liquor as well as they used to.  It’s the most fun she’s had in a long time, and just too, too easy to slip back into.

 

It’s like a script she’s already read and knows the ending to -- she remembers it so clearly; being twenty-five, everything so free and clear and full of promise, feeling invincible, and _once, just once,_ as he spun her around the dance floor.

 

“Remind me how this works again?” he asks after he escorts her back to her room ( _for old time’s sake, and so, so stupid),_ his smirk sadder than it used to be but just as irresistible.  She hates him, she really does.

 

Her hand is down his pants before either of them can say another word.

 

Later:

 

“We’re too old for this shit,” she muses, head resting on his chest.  It’s a non-smoking room, but there’s a full ashtray beside the bed.  He hums in agreement, takes another puff.

 

If you’re going to go down, might as well do it in flames.

 

\--

 

Once she gets back home, she and Mark get pregnant again fast.  Call it repression, denial, realism.  She’s wanted another child, isn’t getting any younger, and her life can’t stop because of David Duchovny and… whatever it is they have.

 

Eighteen years, and she’s just starting to get it.  Theirs isn’t a love story for the ages, but it’s also nowhere close to the meaningless thing she wishes it were.  She’s happy with Mark, really, and even if it’s just now and then she doesn’t like to feel like she’s missing something.  Especially when the thing she’s missing is a thing she’ll never, ever _really_ have (or, of course:  had).

 

That’s a fact that’s been confirmed time and time again, but the next time is like the punch line of a bad joke.  Rehab, sex addiction. 

 

 She reads it in the news, laughs and feels horrible about it, because he has a wife and kids and a life and she knows he’s hurting from this – his pride the least of it.  But if they’re going to be technical, she knows what it means to be addicted too – the tension, the want of the thing you know is the worst for you, the brief try at resisting and utter failure in the end, that sweet guilty relief when you finally give in.  Apparently, though, she’d never been his one and only vice.  She’d known it, really, but it’s strange, the tightening in her chest when she thinks about it that way, that she was maybe just one in a line.  Still, she sends him an email.

 

 _Thinking of you.  Hope you’re well._

It doesn’t take long, to get a response.

 

 _All’s well in the loony bin.  Thanks for the note._

And at the bottom:

 

 _P.S.  Not you.  Never you.  Don’t even think it._

She stares at it for a few minutes, reading the words, sentences, pages between the lines, just like he had with her, before she starts to cry.

 

\--

 

She wishes she could be a better friend to him.  They were actually good at that part, back in the day – the sex aside, the fighting aside, they supported each other.  Looked out for each other.  Forgave each other for things even after they were both asses and probably irredeemable.  But she’s not even sure what being a good friend to him entails now, so she keeps her distance for two years, focusing on her kids and boyfriend and career.  It looks like maybe, she’ll have to forfeit her Most Tumultuous award after all.

 

She receives a playbill in the mail one day with David’s face on it, and the footnote: _Now for something a little different…_

 

It feels like the thing to do.

 

On stage, he shines.  His projection, the way he moves – it’s like he’s been doing this forever.  She watches and ponders why it is that the most brilliant and talented people are often so damaged; wonders if the world would count her among them, if they really knew her.

 

When she is escorted to his dressing room she almost feels shy.  It’s a surprise, her being here – meant to cheer him up.  There’s always a chance that cheer’s not welcome.

 

There’s always a chance that she could make it worse.

 

But his smile for her is huge.  He shuts the door and buries his face against her bare shoulder, to avoid getting his stage make-up all over her dress.  “I can’t believe you’re here.  You couldn’t find a better offer?”

 

“I was going to stay home and wash my hair, but figured what the hell.”  She cups his face fondly.  “You weren’t so bad out there, old man.  Theater agrees with you.”

 

“Aw shucks.”  There are voices outside, talking and laughing.  People would be here soon, wanting to whisk them away to the after-party.  Still, he sits on the small bench in the corner of the room, gazing up at her with too-familiar green eyes.  “I just needed a hobby, is all.”

 

“Bird-watching?” she offers.

 

“Pretty sure that’s what got me into trouble the first time.”

 

“You’re horrible.”  She eases down next to him.  “How’ve you been?”

 

He sighs, head falling back against the wall.

 

“That good, huh?”

 

Grunting softly, his chin rolls toward her.  It’s one of those rare serious moments that she sometimes forgets he’s capable of.  “I’m trying to be better now, Gill.  I know I’ve said that before, but I’ve become someone who doesn’t deserve anyone.  Not even… especially not…”  He ruffles his hand through his over-gelled hair.  “God.  It’s embarrassing.”

 

This isn’t the time or place.   “Don’t be embarrassed for trying to do the right thing.  Besides, what makes you think I have respect to lose?”  Her nudge is good-natured.  “Kidding.”

 

A crooked smile in her direction.  “I miss it, you know.”

 

“What?  The good old days?” she asks, dry, and yes, there’s irony in her voice.  Things were rarely as uncomplicated as good or bad, and it’s been her primary life lesson for the past twenty years.  She’s never sure whether to thank or curse him for teaching her this.  “Me too,” she admits.  “But not.  If that makes sense.”

 

He puts his arm around her shoulder and tugs her closer, makes her eyes falls shut with the easy familiarity of it. 

 

“It wasn’t all bad, right?” he asks.  His voice is mostly light now, joking-David, but she hears the concern underneath; the wondering about whether he’s dragged her down with him somehow, in some way.  “We had something pretty special.”

 

She burrows into him closer, the smell of his cologne and the sound of his breath, and it’s all the same, even after all these years.

 

She feels like it always will be.

 

They aren’t “us,” but they aren’t just David and Gillian, either.  Through everything, they just… are.  All that’s left is to accept and embrace it.

 

 “We still do.”


End file.
